The Perfect Family

by Robyn Harding

  To my relief, my mom stood up then, signaling that the heartfelt confessional was mercifully over. “You know we’re here if you want to talk.” She stroked my hair. “And Dr. Chang will see you anytime. Or we could get you your own therapist. Someone who specializes in treating teenagers.”

  “Yeah, I’ll let you know,” I said. I wanted them to leave. I hated to admit it, but I felt like having a little cry myself.

  * * *

  A COUPLE OF days later, Georgia reached out to me via text.

  I know you hate me, and I don’t blame you

  But I hope Eli’s ok

  And your mom

  And you

  Luke and I are here if you need us

  I wanted to hold on to my hatred and anger. My best friends had betrayed me in spectacular fashion. They had been sneaky and cowardly and downright stupid. Their anonymous messages had terrified me, had exacerbated all the scary shit that had been going on in my family. But the fact was, I missed them. And I needed them.

  So, when Luke texted to check on me shortly after Georgia had, I responded:

  Doughnuts?

  Yes please, he wrote back.

  We met at our usual spot, a cheaper, less trendy place than the famous Voodoo or Blue Star. I got there first, and found a table, nervously picking at a whiskey-apple fritter and sipping a chai latte. When my friends entered, they looked as uneasy as I felt. They gave me a tentative wave, and then headed to the counter to get their doughnuts and coffees, before joining me at the table.

  “How’s your family doing?” Georgia asked, as she sat.

  “They’re good,” I said, sipping my latte. “All things considered.”

  “That must have been a nightmare.” Luke pressed his hands to his chest. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” I tore off a piece of my fritter. “I mean, I hate that everyone’s talking about us, that my mom and my brother are the scandal of the year, but I’m hanging in there.”

  “Fuck everyone,” Luke said. “Who cares what they think?”

  “Their lives are so boring, they wish one of their parents would shoot their brother,” Georgia quipped.

  We all laughed then, and it felt comfortable and right. It felt like old times. I had thought I was outgrowing my two oldest friends, but now, after everything I’d gone through, it felt so good to be back with them.

  “I’m really glad you wanted to see us,” Luke said, clearly feeling the same sentiment. “You have every right to be mad at us.”

  “I know I do.”

  “I really fucked up.” Georgia’s Earl Grey and rose petal doughnut sat ignored on the plate before her. “You were being attacked and it was stressful and horrible, and I made it worse.”

  I gave a half nod, half shrug. She had made it worse. But I didn’t want to be angry anymore.

  “We screwed up,” Luke said. “But we were concerned about you. And scared for you.”

  “I never judged you,” Georgia added quickly. “I just felt like you were too young and too vulnerable to be involved in sex work. I mean, Sam found you on the site. That meant anyone could have found you.”

  “Any creep,” Luke volunteered. “Any psychopath.”

  “Or a teacher,” Georgia added. “Or someone from college admissions.”

  “But what you do with your life is up to you,” Luke said, breaking off a piece of his salted chocolate doughnut. “We’ll support you. And we’ll keep your secret.”

  “Thanks,” I said, licking the icing from my fingers. “But I’m not going to cam anymore. Not right now, anyway. Not while I’m underage and living in my parents’ house.”

  “Good,” Georgia said, then quickly covered: “I mean, whatever you think is best.”

  I sipped my tea. “Your messages really did creep me out. Especially when you called me baby doll. Ick.”

  Georgia’s brow furrowed. “I never called you baby doll.”

  “You did. I remember it.”

  “I didn’t, Tarryn. That’s so pervy.”

  The conversation shifted then, back to familiar topics like hot guys and annoying celebrities, but my mind was stuck on that message. Ur playing a dangerous game, baby doll. I hadn’t imagined it. If Georgia hadn’t sent it, who had? But it didn’t matter now, I told myself. I was closing the door on that chapter. I hadn’t changed my moral stance on sex work. I still believed it was a viable way to earn an income, that it should be safe and respected, not judged and shamed. But I didn’t really need the money. And I didn’t really need the attention. So, whoever had been watching me, whoever had called me baby doll, was irrelevant.

  “Harry Styles is sexually ambiguous,” Luke was saying, as I tuned back into my friend’s chat, “which just means he hasn’t met the right guy yet.”

  I laughed and took the last sip of my latte, pushing the niggling concern to the back of my mind.

  Thomas

  THE HOME PHONE rang, a rare occurrence. I almost didn’t answer it, but then I remembered that Tarryn and Eli were still asleep, and the constant ring would wake them. It was Sunday morning, my time to do yard work, to mow the lawn and power-wash the house. Viv was puttering in the garden, but I was drinking my coffee, scrolling through my phone, taking my time. The noise of the electric mower would wake up the kids, and they needed their rest. And since that terrible night we were all moving a little slower, looking after ourselves.

  I picked up the handset in the kitchen. “Hello?” My greeting was guarded; I suspected it was a telemarketer.

  “Thomas?”

  The voice was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. “Speaking.”

  “This is Mark Barber calling.”

  My stomach dropped. Mark was a jovial, good-natured guy. He’d worked in marketing for Nike for years, had just moved to a smaller outdoor clothing company. We weren’t buddies or pals, but we’d occasionally bumped into each other at school events or neighborhood functions. I liked him. But I knew all about Viv’s ugly confrontation with Dolly last week. And I knew this was not a social call.

  “Hey, Mark.” My casualness was overt, forced.

  “Dolly’s upset. She doesn’t want to talk to Viv but… there’s something we wanted you to know.”

  I set my coffee cup on the counter. “I’m listening.”

  On the other end of the line, Mark inhaled and exhaled heavily. “My son, Nate, has admitted to attacking your house. He said he slashed your tires. And… he lit your hedge on fire.”

  “What?” Anger made my pulse pound and my face burn. “We could have been killed,” I snapped. “If Eli hadn’t come home when he did, our whole house could have burned down.”

  “Nate didn’t intend for the fire to spread. He’s just a troubled kid.”

  Oh, that’s okay then! I wanted to bark, but sarcasm wasn’t going to make this conversation go more smoothly. “I thought you kept him at home? I thought he didn’t have access to a car?”

  “He’s not a prisoner,” Mark retorted. “I guess he found a way.”

  “What about the wasps’ nest in our trash can?” I moved into the living room. “Did he break in and put the dead rat in our fridge?”

  “I don’t know, Thomas.” Mark suddenly sounded small, exhausted. “He shut down after he told me about the fire. He’s been through a lot. He’s… got some serious problems.”

  “I’ll say,” I snorted.

  “What about your wife’s problems?” Mark’s ire was up. “She stole Nate’s stash of pills. She admitted it!”

  Through the window, I saw Viv on her knees, digging in the flower bed. She looked small, gentle, vulnerable. Protectiveness swelled inside me. “It was a stupid impulse,” I said. “She wasn’t thinking straight.”

  “My son was beaten to a pulp. Because of her.”

  “Well, if he hadn’t been dealing drugs in the first place…”

  “Thanks for your compassion,” Mark spat.

  Our argument was escalating, becoming heated. I thought about Viv’s phone call with the Nygard
s, and how much it had cost me. “Look, Mark… this whole thing is a huge fucking mess,” I said, an attempt to defuse the tension and anger. “Pointing fingers isn’t going to solve anything.”

  “I agree,” Mark said, similarly resigned. “But we need to know… do you plan to press charges against Nate?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to talk to Viv about it.”

  “Well, if you do, we’ll have to tell the police about Viv stealing the pills. They’ll need the whole story.”

  It was an ultimatum. A threat. And it worked. Viv was dealing with her issues, privately. She was getting therapy and she was healing. If her secrets were made public, it would destroy her. And the kids. All of us.

  “Your son needs help,” I said. “We just want him to get that.”

  “He will.” Mark’s response was tinged with relief. “He’s going away for a while. A treatment facility in Idaho. They’ve got an excellent track record with substance abuse issues and anger management.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Yeah. It’s for the best.”

  Outside, Viv was standing up, removing her gardening gloves finger by finger. “Thanks for the call, Mark,” I said, hanging up the phone. My wife entered moments later, her gaze falling on the phone still in my hand.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked.

  “Of course.” I put the phone down and moved toward her. I took her in my arms and kissed her cheek. “Everything’s absolutely fine.”

  TWO MONTHS LATER

  Viv

  IT WAS MID-SEPTEMBER, the first nip of autumn in the air, the sun setting earlier with each passing day. I welcomed the new season with its changing leaves, cooler temperatures, and pumpkin spice everything. It felt like the end of a long hard trial, the beginning of something new. We had just endured the worst summer of our lives. Things could only get better.

  I slipped deeper into the bath, the warm water soothing the ache in my lower back. At the end of the tub, my chipped burgundy toenails peeped through the bubbles. I’d been on my feet all day, staging a home in Eliot for Thomas. My design work had been slow—perhaps Dolly had something to do with that—but my staging business was as busy as ever. And that was fine with me. My ambition had been thwarted by recent events. Maybe it would come back, with time, but for now, I was satisfied working within my comfort zone. Tomorrow morning, I was looking at one of Leo Grass’s listings.

  Somehow, we were moving on. Eli’s injury had healed, mostly, but the muscles in his shoulder had been permanently damaged by the bullet. He didn’t suffer great pain, but his mobility would be forever limited. I thought he might blame me, hate me, but my son actually seemed relieved. The pressure of competitive sports, college, and the social scene had been too much for my sensitive boy. Thomas and I had pressed him too hard, and he had lashed out at us. We had convinced ourselves that we only wanted the best for our kids, but we hadn’t taken the time to understand what that really meant for each of our children. We were all learning to redefine the meaning of success.

  The water was cooling off, so I pulled the plug and got out of the tub. I was toweling myself off when I heard the front door open. Either Thomas was back from his open house, or Tarryn had returned from the movie she’d gone to see with a new friend. The girl’s name was Ambreen. I wasn’t sure if their relationship was romantic or platonic, but it didn’t matter. Tarryn seemed happy. The footsteps on the stairs indicated my daughter’s lighter step. As I slipped into my robe, I opened the bathroom door and poked my head out.

  “How was the movie?”

  “Lame. Cliché.” But she was smiling, and there was a softness in her expression. Since that terrible night, Tarryn hadn’t changed in any outward way. She still refused to conform to high school norms and would not play the popularity game. As usual, she was dressed in her uniform of sweatpants and an oversize T-shirt, a huge flannel shirt over the top to combat the night’s chill. But there had been a subtle shift in her energy. Underneath her veneer of apathy, she seemed lighter, warmer. Recently, she’d even started talking about her future. Tarryn was in her senior year now, and she was considering the University of Washington, majoring in either sociology or women’s studies. Thomas and I would support her, financially and emotionally, but we would not pressure her. We had learned our lesson.

  “Are you off to bed?” Tarryn’s room was upstairs now. She said the basement was too cold, too remote. Eli had gladly taken it back. It afforded him quiet for his homework, and privacy when his pal Sam came over. Or his friend Arianna.

  “I’m going to read for a bit. Good night, Mom.”

  “Good night, honey.”

  I padded to my bedroom and into the walk-in closet. It was still my sanctuary, my little slice of heaven, but the drawer with the false bottom was empty now. I’d trashed all of my ill-gotten gains and would not be replacing them. The illicit pills had presented a problem. They were too toxic and dangerous to toss in the trash or flush down the toilet. If I took them to the police, there would be questions, questions that would incriminate me and Nate Barber. We’d reached an unspoken agreement with his family. We didn’t need to get law enforcement involved.

  In the end, I’d taken the deadly pills to a pharmacy for proper disposal. “I found these on the street,” I’d told the pharmacist, a woman about my age with an air of extreme competence. “I have no idea what they are.” And then I’d hurried away, relieved that they wouldn’t destroy any more lives.

  Opening a top drawer, I selected a nightgown and put it on. Thomas would be home soon, and I would wait up for him. Not because I felt nervous without him in the house. We still armed our security system every night, even though we’d suffered no harassment for months. And I no longer worried that Thomas was up to something. I trusted him completely. We were talking to a therapist and to each other. There were no more secrets between us, there was no more suspicion. The horrible events we had endured had brought us closer, in a strange way. So, I wanted to wait up, to ask about his evening, and to kiss him good night.

  As I moved toward the bed, gratitude, that sentiment I had struggled so hard to find, filled my chest and lifted the corners of my lips. It came so effortlessly these days, and often. Moved by the feeling, I settled myself down on the plush carpet, pressed my hands together at heart-center, and closed my eyes. I gave thanks for all that we had, and for all that we had survived. My family was safe and healthy now. My marriage was strong again. And the endless stress and torment had ceased. We had all learned so much: about ourselves, about one another, and about what it truly means to be happy.

  I was just about to get up when I heard the egg hit the front window.

  Acknowledgments

  I’M VERY GRATEFUL to the team at Gallery Books: Jackie Cantor, Molly Gregory, Jennifer Bergstrom, Andrew Nguyễn, Michelle Podberezniak, Jessica Roth, Anabel Jimenez, Aimée Bell, Sara Quaranta, Jennifer Long, Liz Psaltis, Abby Zidle, Diana Velasquez, John Paul Jones, Davina Mock-Maniscalco, and everyone else behind the scenes. Thanks to my eagle-eyed copyeditor Joal Hetherington, and to designer Spencer Fuller/FACEOUT STUDIO for this wonderful cover.

  Thanks to my kind, calm, always supportive agent from day one, Joe Veltre, the faultless Tori Eskue, and the entire team at Gersh.

  To my friend and legal adviser, Jon Lazar. Thanks for talking me through the legalities of this fictional situation and being such a good friend and support in real life.

  Thanks to the team at Simon and Schuster Canada: Nita Pronovost, Karen Silva, Felicia Quon, Kevin Hanson, Adria Iwasutiak, Rita Silva, Rebecca Snodden, Sarah St. Pierre, Mackenzie Croft, and co. You are the best! Thanks to the wonderful Fiona Henderson, Anthea Bariamis, Kirstin Corcoran, Rachael Versace and everyone at Simon and Schuster Australia.

  I’m so grateful to all the booksellers and librarians, the bloggers, bookstagrammers and Facebook groups who do so much to spread the word about books. And thank you to the wonderful community of writers. I miss you all and can’t wait until we c
an go to conferences again!

  As always, thank you to my mom, my family, and my friends. And all my love to John, Ethan, Tegan —and the naughty chihuahuas Victor and Wendy.

  More from the Author

  The Swap

  The Arrangement

  Her Pretty Face

  The Party

  About the Author

  PHOTOGRAPH BY TALLULAH

  ROBYN HARDING’s novels include the international bestseller The Party and The Swap, which was an instant #1 Globe and Mail and Toronto Star bestseller. She has also written and executive produced an independent film. She lives in Vancouver, BC, with her family. Visit her at RobynHarding.com or follow her on Twitter and Instagram @RHardingWriter or on Facebook @AuthorRobynHarding.

  FOR MORE ON THIS AUTHOR:

  SimonandSchuster.com/Authors/Robyn-Harding

  SimonandSchuster.com

  @GalleryBooks

  ALSO AVAILABLE FROM ROBYN HARDING AND GALLERY BOOKS

  The Swap

  The Arrangement

  Her Pretty Face

  The Party

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